


The Moon, the Sun, and the Truth

by EntreNous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Humor, Emotional Manipulation, First Kiss, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Underage Character, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson tells himself he isn't dating Greg Lestrade.  Yeah, they snog and grope and spend time together, but they're just mates.  Then along comes Sherlock Holmes, who's far too good at figuring out the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken the title from a common paraphrase/simplified quote of Buddha: "Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." See here for details on the canonical original quote. 
> 
> This fic is complete but I'm posting it in parts daily. 
> 
> Many thanks to wesleysgirl for the helpful beta.

John rubbed his cheek against Greg's hard cloth-covered prick and moaned just as the series of knocks came at the door.

"Christ," John swore at the sharp rapping, jerking up and forward, smacking his head against the wall in the process. 

"Lestrade?" a baritone voice demanded outside the door of Greg's dorm room. "Let me in at once." There was a brief pause. "For your sake, I hope you haven't forgotten our appointment."

"Ah, fuck. What day is it again?" Greg passed one hand over his eyes before hastily beginning to do up his button fly. He grimaced as he slid the last button in place over the bulge of his straining cock, glancing over as John scrambled to a standing position.

"Fucking hell, Greg!" John hissed, hopping about as he yanked up his own jeans. "You couldn't remember asking someone to come round _before_ I started sliding my lips along your --"

"Lestrade, if you don't open this door in sixty seconds, I'll pick the lock and open it myself," the voice said, managing to convey boredom and threat all at once. 

"Hang on, Holmes!" Greg shouted before bending to snatch his t-shirt from the floor. "Listen, I forgot, okay?" he continued to John in a fierce whisper even as he thrust the shirt over his head. "It's not like I wanted us to get interrupted." 

"Yeah, well, I wonder," John muttered. He shoved his feet into his trainers. 

"Christ," Greg murmured. His cheeks still were flushed, his lips swollen from kisses. John did his level best not to glance down at his crotch to see how hard Greg still might be. 

"Who the hell is it, anyway?" 

"It's only that bloke from my economics class -- the one I told you about, who knows more than the instructor. He's been tutoring me, not that it's doing much good." Greg tried for a smile.

John pulled on his button-up shirt, lips tight as he began to fasten it. 

"Hey." Greg caught John's forearms in his hands, sighing when John twisted away to finish dressing. "I'd tell him to bugger off, except without him helping I'd fail this next exam for sure."

"Fine. Yeah, okay." John scanned the floor for his shoulder bag, hefting it up as soon as he spotted it. 

"Lestrade," Holmes's voice called, insistent. "If you're under the misapprehension I enjoy being kept waiting, let me inform you that you are completely wrong."

"Just a fucking minute, Sherlock!" Greg hollered. He tugged his dark hair up in agitation. "Look, can I come round tonight?" he said in an undertone. After a beat in which John stilled, chewing his lip, he pressed against John's back, slipping his arms around John's torso. 

John exhaled slowly and leaned back just a bit. "Yeah, but just -- be careful." _That no one sees you sneaking into my room_ was implied. 

"Right." Greg cleared his throat before stepping to the door. He smoothed the wrinkles from his t-shirt and patted his hair to tame it slightly before turning the handle. 

"Finally," the visitor huffed. "Lestrade, I --" he began before stopping as he caught sight of John. 

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes," Greg muttered by way of introduction. 

John gave a short nod to the intruder, already intending to leave as soon as possible. When he got a good look at him though, he felt the corners of his lips tugging up in a smile. Imperious and egotistical as the voice sounded, its owner appeared anything but authoritative. John couldn't wait to tease Greg later about getting tutored by this -- this _kid_. He reckoned the gangly stranger standing at the threshold couldn't have been more than sixteen at most. 

Must have been one of those genius types pushed to advance by his meddling parents, John decided. Why else would a bloke this young be at uni in the first place, never mind tutoring a student in his final year? This Holmes was too skinny by half, holding himself stiffly as if he still weren't adjusted to his coltish limbs. The halo of dark curls framing his pale haughty face and his intent eyes seemed designed to make the mothers of England ignore his stroppy attitude to coo over him and try to feed him up on biscuits.

"Well. I'm off," John said to break the awkward silence of the three of them standing about. "Lestrade, thanks for lending me the -- the er --" he stopped, coming up blank without a proper excuse.

Greg opened his mouth, probably to continue the ruse, but before he could say anything, Sherlock snorted. He looked avidly at them, his expression so keen that John involuntarily took a step back. 

"You needn't try to pretend you met merely to hand off a maths textbook or return a borrowed football," Sherlock snapped. His eyes narrowed, darting back between them. "Even if I hadn't extremely sharp hearing, anyone paying the least bit of attention could see --"

"Shut it," Greg broke in.

The boy sniffed. "Why, when it's painfully obvious --"

We don't want to hear it, Holmes," Greg interrupted wearily.

John only realized he had swallowed nervously when Sherlock's gaze snapped to his throat. 

They'd been so fucking careful the past months, he and Greg. None of their mates knew what was going on between them. To have this awkward git come in and after only a moment perhaps know enough to blurt out everything they'd been hiding unnerved John terribly. He felt like he was about to sway where he stood.

"I have to go," John said, pushing past Sherlock, not bothering to acknowledge Greg calling after him. Let Greg handle the fallout from his fucking nosy tutor.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, John bent over panting, hands on his knees after a brutal football match with some lads from his dorm. They'd won, at least, but now he reckoned he'd more likely pass out on his bed for a few hours when he stumbled back to his dorm instead of revising for his chemistry exam as he'd planned.

"Nice going, Watson," his mate Arthur commented as he jogged up. "Someone else seems to think so, too," he added, grinning and jerking his head toward the sidelines of the field they'd commandeered. 

John licked his lips, peering round to see if it were perhaps Sarah or Jeanette this time. His friends always teased him about how girls he knew would often linger to watch him play. When he spotted Sherlock Holmes looming on the sidelines, a great coat whipping around his legs in the wind, John groaned.

"Branching out, are we?" Arthur asked cheerfully, jostling John with an elbow. "I suppose it's not only the ladies who love John Watson, despite you being a fucking gnome." 

"Fuck off," John managed before he straightened and brushed grass and dirt from himself. Arthur laughed and ambled off to talk to someone else.

Holmes didn't approach or make any signal indicating he knew John saw him. He just stood on a small swell of hill and stared as though John were a volatile sort of experiment about to produce an extraordinary reaction. 

"If he thinks I'm going to have a chat with him, he's daft," John grumbled to himself as he turned away. 

As the others dispersed, joking and jeering at each other, John trudged back to his dorm, pretending he didn't notice when Sherlock began to tail him at an indifferent distance. He could feel his shoulders hunching up more as he walked, imagining those uncanny light eyes trained on his back. 

Lucky for John by the time he approached the building's entrance, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Even without that disconcerting presence, though, the very idea gave John the shivers. Why would Sherlock follow him? Had he been sneaking about after him before today?

As soon as he closed the door of his room, John tore off all his sweaty clothes apart from his pants, his thoughts racing. 

One small comfort: Sherlock couldn't have seen anything worth notice even if he had been watching John recently. Unsettled and anxious after the afternoon at Greg's, John had deliberately avoided Greg after, going so far as to station himself at the sciences library for a late night so he wouldn't be found in his room if Greg decided to come round. 

Greg had texted twice soon after: _All right?_ near midnight and _Another time, then_ an hour later. Alone in a quiet corner trying to focus on his anatomy readings, John had hesitated before deleting both. 

The text he got two days later, simply _Pub Saturday?_ had John wavering. He knew exactly the pub Greg meant, where they'd met months ago. 

After John's friends had called it a night, he'd stayed behind, finishing his pint, when he'd looked up to see a gorgeous bloke watching him. He didn't look away, even when John licked his lips and raised his glass for the last swallow of lager. Instead, he'd tilted his head as he watched John's throat work and smiled, easy and charming.

Not long after they'd ended up in the dark alley to the side of the pub, hands down each other's pants, mouths mashed together with more desperation than finesse. 

None of it was so different from encounters with men John had before -- stumbling drunk into the toilets at clubs, quick clumsy hand jobs around dark corners at raucous parties -- until afterward, when Greg instead of reeling back and fleeing as soon as possible had instead grinned and asked for John's mobile.

"I'm not really --" John stammered. "You know, I just -- I don't do this."

"Seems like you do," Greg had said mildly. The grin faded from his face though, leaving a small furrow between his brows. "Okay then," he said when John fretfully wiped his palms against his jeans again. "Okay."

John watched him take several steps away before blurting, "Wait, no," and caught up to him to tell him the number after all. 

He reckoned it wouldn't harm anything if they met one more time. But weeks passed, and he'd met Greg several more times at the pub. Each time they left together, they'd found themselves pulling into a quiet niche next to a campus building or snickering as they revisited that alley. 

Just a way to have some fun, John told himself. His courses kept him so busy; he could hardly date girls and keep up with all the attention they seemed to want without a lot of hassle. With Greg, though, it was easy. Casual. Just two mates, having a few drinks, spending a bit of time together, both knowing it meant nothing in the end.

Almost a month after it began, though, Greg stopped by John's dorm late one weeknight. John had hedged and stammered and apologized for his room being a tip before Greg yanked him close and cupped his arse with both hands, nipping hard at John's throat.

Soon they were visiting each other's rooms regularly, crowding each other against closed doors with frantic breathing and tugs at clothing or piling on to their narrow dorm beds as they laughed and surged against each other, hard and wanting. Before John could acknowledge the change or think through what it meant, taking their clothes off after a few beers and snogging on proper beds rather than lurching already drunk into stealthy corners had become standard for them. 

Perhaps John ought to have worried most of all after the first time they took off their clothes without either of them having drinks beforehand. Instead of heading to a pub with the rest of his mates after a particularly difficult exam, John had gone round to Greg's, inadvertently waking him from an afternoon nap. He'd tried to leave, apologizing when he saw Greg's hair sticking up every which way and the rumpled pyjama bottoms that were all Greg had on, but Greg had waved him in.

It was the first time in the light of day, the first time the sounds from the corridor weren't drunken cat calls or shouts about parties but students departing for classes or talking about plans to revise together. They'd been quiet that time, shedding their clothes slowly, squirming on the bed until they ended up inverted opposite each other, sucking. Greg slowly but surely gave John the most fantastic blowjob he'd had in his life while John did his level best to keep up, whimpering around Greg's cock. 

After, they chatted sleepily, realigned to face side by side, stretching and murmuring next to each other until they dozed. Later when night fell, they ran out in the rain for pizza, and Greg handed over the notes to pay before John could protest. 

If Greg had been a girl, John would have said they were dating. They talked before and after they got started, they watched movies in Greg's room sometimes; they caught each other's eyes across the room at parties and smiled, private even in swelling crowds, before each made his own excuses to slip away.

But no, the entire thing was mad. John went out with girls. _Greg_ went out with girls. Just because neither of them had dated a girl since they'd begun seeing each other...

Sighing, John gathered his soap and shampoo and headed for the showers in his cloth dressing gown. He supposed that Sherlock bloke had done them both a favor. This situation with Greg was too much for him to handle on top of his coursework and worries about his future. He would meet a girl he liked eventually, and get married. Already there was barely a place in his life for anything like this; he would have had to end things soon anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

When John returned to his room after the shower, he stopped to hang up his now-damp robe, tossed the pants he'd shed before the shower toward the pile of laundry on the floor, and turned to get fresh clothes.

"Jesus fuck!" he hollered when he saw Sherlock Holmes sitting on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, wrapped in that imposing coat of his, and watching John with undisguised interest. John scrambled, nearly tripping himself when he reached to grab the dressing gown to cover his naked body. 

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," Sherlock offered. His gaze, however, as he watched John bundle himself back in the robe, seemed avid. 

"That's hardly the point," John huffed, managing to wrench the robe back on. "How did you get in here, anyway? And what do you want?"

Sherlock steepled his index fingers as he regarded John. The gesture gave him an air of authority in spite of the posture with his knees drawn up like a child's. 

"Medical student, another year to go after this one," he began abruptly. "Thinking of joining the military because fellowships are increasingly scarce these days -- a reasonable consideration, by the way, as you're quite right that your grades at present aren't up to snuff. Generally well-liked, has had a number of short-term romances while at uni, but few close friends, though you consider Lestrade one -- or you did until recently." Sherlock tilted his head to the side, his eerie gaze shrewd. "You haven't seen Lestrade since that day I interrupted the two of you."

Feeling dreadfully exposed, John tugged the band of his dressing-gown tighter. "Lovely. You've been asking around about me, I suppose, though I've no idea why. The last bit you only know because you've been following me."

"Haven't spoken to anyone about you," Sherlock said idly. "It's completely obvious from examining you, seeing the pile of books on your desk, and viewing the posters you have on your walls. Of course, I could have deduced most of it even so from your posture and the state of your toothbrush." A beat passed. "So you did see me watching you." He unfolded his knees only to position himself cross-legged and lean against John's wall, the movement revealing the finely woven dark green shirt and black dress trousers he wore underneath the expensive greatcoat. 

John decided to ignore the nonsense bits of Sherlock's speech and snorted. "Yeah, I saw you," he said brusquely. 

Something very like uncertainty flickered over Sherlock's face. That and the more casual posture made Sherlock seem at once more like the other uni students John knew instead of this odd kid who dressed as though he were a professor and spoke as though he were already far beyond any of his peers. 

"You were hard to miss," John added after a pause.

"Interesting." Sherlock trailed a finger over John's duvet, examined a thread that had come loose, and looked back up. 

For some reason, John felt a rush of heat, as though the room had warmed all at once. "Look, can we skip ahead to the bit where you tell me what the hell you want and then leave?"

"So you haven't seen Lestrade," Sherlock mused as though John hadn't said anything. "Not just that, you haven't spoken or texted -- no, he's texted you, hasn't he? But you've been too much of a coward to respond."

"Not that it's any of your business," John muttered as he grabbed a towel to rub at his wet hair and hide the flush in his cheeks, "but you don't know a damn thing about me. You've absolutely no right to call me a coward based on some random guess." 

"On the contrary, I know a great deal about you already. And I rarely guess. So, a rift between you and Lestrade. And yet, as I said before, he's one of your few close friends. Why, then? No doubt it stems from your embarrassment at being interrupted. So conventional of you, to find someone disrupting your act of sexual congress mortifying." Sherlock shot John a look of pure disappointment.

"Sexual congress?" John repeated incredulously. He forced a laugh. "I don't know where you got that idea, but there's nothing like that between Greg and me." 

The past days whenever he thought about Greg he'd felt a sharp yearning he did his best to tamp down, promptly followed by a swell of anxiety when he thought about trying to speak to him, what he might have to say. Right now, though, he only cursed himself for not getting in touch with Greg sooner so he'd know what excuses Greg told Sherlock. "We're mates. That's all." 

"Obvious," Sherlock dismissed all of John's words with a wave of his hand. "Even had I not heard the distinct sound of an erotic moan beyond the door before I knocked, even had I not witnessed both of you with color high on your cheeks, lips swollen, and clothing in disarray, your blustered denial just now would confirm any suspicions I might have had." He tapped a finger against his plush lower lip. "Still, this supports another theory of mine: that you believe yourself 'straight' and panicked after a situation in which you were all but discovered _in flagrante delicto_ with another man. Yes, that's at the root of this: you haven't contacted Greg because our previous meeting sent you into a sexual crisis. Apparently you'd willingly let whatever personal ties you have with Lestrade languish, however important he is to you, in favor of protecting your delusions about your sexual identity. Hence, you are a coward." His eyes flashed as he examined John for his reaction.

John wanted so badly to order Sherlock out of his room straight away that he trembled with holding himself back. He had no idea how Sherlock had figured out what was going on, but he couldn't deny that Sherlock seemed to know not only random facts about him but exactly what had been inside of John's head the past few days. Part of him felt impressed even as he bristled at being called a coward; he'd never had any mates who were as good at figuring out his state of mind as Sherlock had somehow done in only a few moments' time. 

Somewhere inside he ached at the thought of throwing Greg aside -- was that what he was doing? But that wasn't the main thing at the moment, was it? Sherlock knew things about John, and he seemed determined to use that knowledge. John would have disavowed it all to protect himself if he thought it would do any good, but he had a sinking feeling they were well past that stage now.

"What is it you want?" John forced himself to say slowly. He slid his sweaty palms down the nap of his toweling dressing gown. "Money?"

"Dull!" Sherlock sprang to his feet and paced from one end of the small room to the other before spinning to face John. "I have no interest in exploiting your situation for monetary gain."

"Then why tell me all this?" John exploded. "What are you trying to get out of me by breaking in here and making all these pronouncements?"

Sherlock sniffed injuriously, as though John were the one that had put them both in this indelicate situation. "Fine. I think we should kiss."


	4. Chapter 4

"You think we should what?" This was so far outside the realm of possibilities John had considered that he actually gaped.

"You obviously aren't averse to performing various sexual acts with men," Sherlock explained impatiently. "Kissing is typically considered the least of such intimacies; surely you're no stranger to the practice. Additionally, your anxious concealment of the true range of your sexual identity, while patently ludicrous in this day and age especially considering your social class and career aspirations, provides the advantage of making you an exceptionally discreet partner." Sherlock straightened, very serious and dignified. "Well?"

John only realized he'd begun to laugh when he choked, his throat starting to close as he gasped for air. Sherlock at first looked slightly alarmed and then, as John continued to laugh, increasingly irritated.

"Is this how you get off with blokes, then?" John managed a few moments later. "Tell them you've sussed out the things they get up to with other men and demand they snog you? How's that worked so far?"

Sherlock said nothing, but as John watched him, his lower lip jutted out ever so slightly. 

It took John a second to realize Sherlock was pouting. He might have laughed again had he not caught a glimpse of the stricken expression in Sherlock's eyes. Even if John felt completely justified in his aggravation, he couldn't ignore how vulnerable and hurt Sherlock looked. 

It deflated all of John's ire as quickly as the air being let out of a balloon. He reminded himself how young Sherlock was (even if John himself was only a few years older). For all Sherlock's intelligence and uncanny ability to discern things about people, he looked all too uncertain and ill at ease about this sort of thing. John definitely remembered feeling awkward at that age, far more than he did now. He couldn't imagine what it would have been like for a kid with Sherlock's strange traits to be shoved into uni with students far more mature and socially adept. He wanted to wince as he pictured Sherlock actually trying to make friends, never mind find romance.

"Christ," John sighed as he sank down on his desk chair. All his urges to chuck Sherlock out of his room had fully dissipated only to be replaced by a strange surge of protectiveness. "You've not done anything with men before, then, have you? If that's what this is about, you know, if you have questions -- there are, you know, centres, and...and pamphlets."

Sherlock sneered at him. "I don't need some psychologist prattling to me about sexual orientation and handing me literature to say how it's all fine. I know it's all fine! I just wanted --" He turned his head away sharply, but John thought he saw a sheen of tears in Sherlock's eyes.

"Look, you're, what, almost sixteen --"

"I'm nearly seventeen," Sherlock burst out, drawing himself up indignantly to glare. 

"Nearly seventeen, and it's a very confusing time," John offered lamely. He suddenly felt quite old at twenty years of age. "But, and this may seem like a shock, I don't think you're going about trying to meet other boys the right way if this sort of thing seems like a good choice to you."

"You're useless," Sherlock mumbled. "You're projecting, obviously -- you're the one confused about his identity, regardless of your extensive experience."

"Hang on," John interrupted, finding he could still muster some annoyance even if Sherlock was awkward and vulnerable. "Don't you go making insinuations about my 'confusion,' or my 'extensive experience'!"

"Fine, yes, all right. I regret ever wasting the time I took to speak to you."

"Sherlock," John said as Sherlock strode to the door and reached out his surprisingly large hand to open it. "Wait."

Sherlock stilled.

Taking a deep breath, John gestured for Sherlock to return and sit on the bed. When Sherlock hesitated, John moved to the bed himself, nodding to the other end of it for Sherlock.

Sherlock took the space John had indicated, his eyes narrowed, and shrugged off his coat.

When Sherlock said nothing, just hunched in looking even younger, John moved slightly closer to him and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Look, it's not going to be like this forever, even if it feels that way now." 

Sherlock scoffed, looking annoyed.

"It's not so bad, being new to this sort of thing," John persisted. 

Later on, he thought somewhere at the back of his mind, he'd work out how they'd gone from Sherlock breaking into his dorm room and more or less threatening him to John trying to give Sherlock helpful advice. But there was no time for such things now. Instead he tried to summon encouraging things people had told him when he was younger and feeling foolish about his inexperience. 

"Maybe you have a mate you could, you know, try things on with," John suggested.

"I don't have friends," Sherlock hissed, tipping his chin up and looking like a cat about to strike out at someone for teasing it. 

"Right," John muttered, running his fingers through his still-damp hair. He supposed he wasn't shocked someone like Sherlock didn't have people close to him. "Okay, so that's fine, then just -- just go to a club or something, and find someone who wants to have a bit of fun. First kisses aren't really all they're made out to be; it's something you do, and then you've done it, you see, and you can move forward. It all gets better with practice. But be careful, obviously, because there are people who might try to take advantage."

Sherlock inched closer, which John took as encouragement. "Someone like you wouldn't take advantage," he said in a low voice.

"You see, there are people, er, men out there who wouldn't," John said, relieved Sherlock seemed to be receptive to advice. "And you're really quite handsome aside from the gawky part, which I'm sure you'll get past. Anyway, lots of people like tall blokes. You have gorgeous eyes, you know, and your mouth is very -- let's say you're not going to lack for men who want to get you alone." John laughed slightly. "You don't need to follow people about and try to make them feel cornered to get someone to kiss you."

"I don't?" Sherlock asked, his eyes darting over John's face as if reading something fascinating there.

"Of course not. Just you watch -- you'll go to a club, and spot someone who catches your eye." John smiled a bit; he could easily slip into the memories of the times he'd been in such a situation. "They'll take a look at you standing there, maybe glance at your mouth, and you'll be able to tell they're thinking about what it would be like if they moved a little closer. Then you'll get to talking, learn a few things about each other, and before too long one of you leans in, and then --"

And then John couldn't speak any more, because Sherlock had leaned in to brush his lips against John's.


	5. Chapter 5

"Okay, _no_ ," John started to say, but he undercut his own sensible interruption by grasping Sherlock's shoulder and drawing him closer. Fuck, but he'd been right about that mouth -- plush lips, soft and hesitant but gaining confidence as they went on. John couldn't help picture what that beautiful mouth would look like wrapped around someone's cock, Sherlock's mesmerizing eyes fluttering closed at the first feel of hardness sliding inside where it was so warm and soft. 

John heard himself make a frantic sound; Sherlock took it as a cue to push closer, more desperate now. It seemed almost hard to believe, a dazed voice somewhere at the edges of John's consciousness said, that those lips had never kissed before. Sherlock was hesitant, surely, but he moved with a growing sensual assurance very different from how John remembered his own disastrous first kiss at thirteen. 

He forgot about that soon enough when he slipped his tongue in, though, and Sherlock froze for a moment, betraying the inexperience John had anticipated.

"God, your _mouth_ ," John whispered, overcome. He'd known Sherlock was clever, but to find that translated into the physical side nearly did him in; he had to hang on to Sherlock's bony shoulders as Sherlock deftly copied the slip and slide of John's mouth, met the thrusts of John's tongue with little flicks of his own, growing bolder as they kept at it. When he discovered he could suck John's tongue and heard John's resulting moan, Sherlock made a triumphant little hum, urging him on with panting breaths and clenching fingers.

Though it started awkwardly (the two of them seated side-by-side, leaning in) soon they fitted together perfectly, Sherlock shifting over John, folding his legs on either side of John's thighs and straddling him with a soft sigh. John's hands slid down until he gripped Sherlock's flexing lower back, feeling the muscles bunch and stretch as Sherlock moved closer with the tiniest of whimpers. 

_Silk_ , John thought vaguely, though whether it was the fabric of Sherlock's shirt or the brush of bare skin exposed by that open collar, he wasn't entirely sure. But oh, the marvelous pressure from that firm chest pressed against his bare torso, and oh, Sherlock's large warm hands, one fisted in John's hair for a lifeline, the other sliding along the expanse of exposed skin where John's robe had slipped down. There was that clever aptitude again, as Sherlock left off his urgent grappling to try more sophisticated moves, scratching along John's shoulder blade, stroking down the mid-back where John's skin probably still felt soft and humid from the shower --

Oh fuck, John was only wearing a dressing gown and it wasn't just coming loose on its own; Sherlock had already started to push it off him. It wouldn't take more than one or two firm tugs for him to find himself completely bare-arsed naked. He gasped in a breath, listening to Sherlock panting, feeling him roll his slim hips to press his erection against John's straining cock, and realized his hands were gliding down, starting to cup the swell of that lovely arse --

"No, stop, I mean it," John said, more to himself than Sherlock. He grunted, untangling them with a firm hand even though he could feel his heart beating out of control. 

"Why?" Sherlock asked. The pupils in his eyes were full blown, and the flush of color on his cheeks made him look debauched. "You like it. I like it." He moved as if prepared to push John down on the bed and, though half-inclined to let him succeed, John leapt to his feet to escape. 

"It's like we said before, about taking advantage," John stammered. He tightened his dressing gown then hurriedly loosened it so it wouldn't throw his hard cock into further relief.

Sherlock leaned back, skimming a hand along the inside of his thigh, rather too close to the strain of his prick against his trousers for John's comfort. "It's not taking advantage if I want you to," he murmured, and John nearly came undone at the sound of that deep rich voice, never mind the seductive posture. 

_Seventeen, he's practically -- right, that means sixteen_ , John told himself in distress. "It's not right," John began.

"Boring!" Sherlock shouted. He abandoned his lascivious pose and sat rigidly, vibrating with indignation.

"It's not boring," John insisted. Truthfully that was the least of his problems at the moment. "You're -- young, and besides, I --" 

It was on the tip of his tongue to give the excuse he so often did when he found himself in this sort of situation: _I don't do this_. But that was obviously a fucking lie as much now as it had been when he'd said it to Greg months ago. His mind had gone there out of habit, really, a well-worn groove he'd relied on far too many times. But more than that, his next thought, aside from Sherlock actually being too fucking immature for John to be groping in his dorm room, was of Greg. 

Christ, _Greg_ , who hadn't pressured John at all; Greg, who had told him with every gesture, and kiss, and _everything_ that he wanted him not just to snog or fuck, but actually wanted John, all of him. He inhaled sharply: for all he had denied over and over to himself that he and Greg were dating, where his mind had gone only confirmed what he'd tried so hard to avoid.

It seemed a hell of a time for an epiphany, particularly since he'd just shown himself to be a lousy boyfriend by tongue-fucking the first sixteen year old who'd sneaked into his dorm room. John wasn't sure if there could be a worse way to find out he thought of Greg as his boyfriend, but there it was. Yes, he still felt a pull to ignore his own bumbling warnings and rejoin Sherlock on the bed, but alongside that was a potent rush of anxiety. He felt as if he'd betrayed Greg, and the force of that regret sent all his carefully woven denials and claims that he wasn't _that way_ unfurling like so many tattered ribbons.

That it was Sherlock Holmes -- with his accusations of cowardice and his stubborn insistence that John's confusion made him a good, discreet snogging partner, with his breathy kisses and enthusiastic writhing on John's lap only moments before -- who had apparently provided the key to helping John finally begin to see sense made John's head throb.

"Don't fall back upon my age as a convenient excuse for your spinelessness. I'm hardly naive," Sherlock spat out. He wasn't exactly helping his case by looking so petulant.

"You deserve someone closer to your age," John tried, gritting his teeth against lashing out at the spineless bit. "Besides, it's not just that. There's this thing with Greg."

Sherlock perked up at the words, one eyebrow cocking at the admission, stormy expression turning thoughtful. "So you do indeed have feelings for Lestrade. I knew it. Even though you wouldn't accept it before, now that this has transpired between us, you do." He curled his fingers under his chin and stroked his thumb underneath his full lower lip as he studied John intently, searching for something.

"Yeah, okay, well done. You were right, I reckon," John muttered. He cleared his throat, uncertain if what would come out next were more reassurances or an apology of sorts. "Look, Sherlock --"

"I must be going," Sherlock said brusquely, as though John had been clutching him close and begging him to stay. He swung his coat back on in a deft motion and flipped the collar. "I have matters to see to, and besides, you're rubbish at sorting through these things without what many people so fatuously call 'space'." 

"Hang on," John tried, feeling as if he'd yet again lost control of the situation.

"You'll be hearing from me," Sherlock announced, sweeping from the room.


	6. Chapter 6

John stood in front of Greg's door, taking a last deep breath before he knocked.

His text, _We should talk. Can I come to yours?_ , had been answered almost immediately with a _Yes. Tonight. Whenever._

He supposed it boded well that Greg wanted to see him soon, though it was possible that Greg planned to tell him off straight away for avoiding him like a berk. Never mind that particular problem though, John thought miserably: there was no telling how Greg would react once John confessed what happened with Sherlock.

John had gone back and forth about whether he should tell Greg anything at all. It seemed a bit idiotic to propose to someone they ought to make their relationship official in the same breath that he revealed he'd very recently and rather intensely snogged someone else. However daunting the idea of coming clean was, though, words like "honesty" and "communication" kept rattling around in his tired head. John knew he wasn't much cop at this relationship business, but it hardly seemed worth starting for real with Greg if he was going to keep things from him at the very beginning. 

One more deep breath, John told himself. He took two more for luck.

Greg opened the door and grinned. "You okay? I heard you breathing hard out here -- sounded like you were about to pass out." 

"Smooth, Watson," John muttered to himself as he followed Greg inside. 

"Want something to drink?" 

"No. Yes. I mean, no, I think I'd best not."

Greg nodded, looking a bit more serious. He folded one leg under as he sat on his bed, nodding at John to follow.

John sat carefully, trying not to think about the day before and sitting on his own bed with Sherlock. He opened his mouth, closing it again a second later. "Greg," he began.

"Missed you, you know," Greg interrupted gruffly. He reached over, ruffling John's hair slightly. 

"Did you?" John hadn't meant that to come out as breathless as it sounded. 

"Yeah." His hand moved down to stroke John's neck. 

"Sorry I didn't -- it's been a few days." John's breath hitched when the edge of Greg's fingernail scraped lightly at the nape of his neck. "And that night, I should have gotten in touch."

Greg laughed. "It's okay. Had plenty of revising to keep me occupied. Besides, you're here now." 

John had a speech or two he'd rehearsed to come clean about everything that had happened. But with Greg sitting there with that brilliant smile, that mischievous light in his dark brown eyes, his smooth hair too long and flopping into his eyes, John couldn't quite keep his mind on the matter. "Greg," he said again desperately.

Threading his fingers into John's hair and tugging, Greg resolved the situation for both of them. 

John took a stuttering breath when their lips met. Christ, it sent a buzz of excitement through him every time they kissed, after all this time they'd been together (had been together without ever saying so aloud). John gripped those strong muscled arms in a daze, squirming with pleasure when Greg shifted to mouth along his neck.

"Greg," he murmured, trying to focus.

"Go on and keep saying my name like that," Greg whispered against John's collarbone, biting down lightly. "You could do all night if you liked."

John made an inarticulate sound as Greg's other hand shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, squeezing his arse. "Really, though, we should --"

"Talk, right," Greg muttered. He used his grasp to yank John toward him, falling back on the mattress so John ended up on top. 

"I'm serious," John gasped out while Greg's hips started to grind, his mouth nipping at the underside of John's jaw. "I need to talk to you about that bloke Sherlock Holmes."

Greg froze. "Yeah, all right." 

They separated, sitting upright. Greg ran a hand through his hair and briefly pressed his palms against his face. "So," he said. 

"When I got back from the showers yesterday, he was in my room," John began, rushing the words to hurry the story along as quickly as he could.

Greg listened to the entire account without saying anything. He looked completely baffled at first before his expression eventually turned wary and conflicted. But as John kept talking, trying to force the story out like purging a wound and probably giving far too many details in the process, Greg started to look more thoughtful than anything else.

"So I told him we should stop, because he's too young -- but it wasn't just that, Greg, it's that the entire thing made me realize I couldn't do something like that when I'm with you. And I know it's not something we've talked about, but this isn't -- this isn't some casual thing for me anymore." John inhaled sharply. "I really like you, and I want this to -- to work between us."

Greg shook his head slightly as if in disbelief, and John's heart sank. He forced himself to sit utterly still, waiting for Greg's pronouncement on the entire mess.

"You said he kissed a bit like it wasn't his first time," Greg said finally.

"What?" John thought back to everything he'd said; it seemed a random thing for him to have mentioned, never mind an unlikely thing for Greg to pick up on. "Yeah, I mean -- some of it was new to him. Most, I expect. But it wasn't entirely like a first kiss, I suppose." 

Greg's expression turned shrewd. "Probably because it wasn't his first kiss."

John frowned. "That's hardly -- I mean, how would you know --" 

He watched the guilt flicker over Greg's handsome features. 

"Oh my god," he shouted when the penny finally dropped. " _You_ and Sherlock?"

"Well, I didn't let it go nearly as far as you," Greg protested, setting his firm chin at John. "Honestly, letting him clamber all over you like that! I made him stop as soon as he wrapped those skinny arms around my neck. Well, not as soon as, because, I mean, look at him. And that mouth of his. But nearly!"

They stared at each other for an awful moment. 

John broke the silence first, laughing aloud, and a second later Greg joined in, snickering. 

"You absolute _wanker_ ," John protested, hitting Greg with one of his pillows. "You were just going to let me natter on and -- were you even going to tell me?"

"Yes! It just happened two nights ago --"

"The night before he came round to mine," John clarified.

"And when I thought you weren't talking to me, and might not do again," Greg pointed out.

"Fine, you go ahead and scrabble for that moral high ground," John told him. 

"So I was going to tell you when we next spoke. But then you sent that text." Greg tugged at his hair with both hands. " _We need to talk_ , Jesus Christ! I thought you were coming over to end things for sure."

"No, I never," John said quickly, to make certain Greg knew that was the last thing he wanted. 

"I know that _now_. But I hardly wanted to lead in with, 'Say, Sherlock Holmes came round the other night whinging about how we should kiss, how I was the ideal sort of candidate, and making me feel bad with his moans and groans about how he had no mates --"

John felt his eyes widen. "That's almost exactly the same thing --"

"He said to you, yeah," Greg finished. He gave a sheepish grin. "I'm not surprised. He's good at getting what he wants, that one."

"Fuck, he really is. We're a pair," John said with a sigh. 

"You and Sherlock?" Greg asked, but his eyes had that mischievous look again.

"No, me and you, you git. Both of us getting caught up like that by him."

"To be fair, he's supposed to be a genius," Greg allowed. "Probably better at mucking about in people's affairs than your average bloke."

"Even so." John giggled with relief as the tension thrumming inside him receded to manageable levels. "I did let things go rather further," he said more soberly. "I -- can try to make that up to you, whatever you like."

"I thought you'd thrown me over for good," Greg said simply. "You weren't answering my texts or coming round. This is hardly an ideal turn of events, mind you, but it's better than the alternative I was imagining."

"I reckon you're right. Still. I am sorry."

Greg nodded solemnly. "I suppose I can forgive you, especially considering he only went round to you when I wouldn't let him get off with me."

"Oi!" John cried, indignant, hitting Greg again with the pillow. "What are you saying? I'm snoggable! He probably just used you as a warm up. Believe me, plenty of seventeen year olds would think, 'That John Watson! I'd like to get a leg over.'"

"Think he just turned sixteen," Greg corrected him, grinning when John's eyes widened. "No, really: he said so, start of term."

"He told me he was nearly _seventeen_ \--"

"Like I said, he's good at getting what he wants." 

John groaned, letting his head droop in defeat.

"But I don't think you need to be terribly sorry," Greg said, looking down and taking one of John's hands a bit hesitantly. "If everything with Sherlock is what it took for you to figure out you wanted something more with me, I can hardly hold it against you."

"I've been a prick about all this, haven't I?" John said, huffing a small laugh. He squeezed Greg's hand, feeling a thrill of excited nervousness like the kind he felt on a first date or when he approached someone he fancied for the first time. 

Greg shrugged. "I wasn't sure about all of it either at first. Never really gone out with a bloke before; I didn't know if either of us would start to feel odd about it. And then as we went on, even if it was going well, it got harder to bring it up. I thought maybe you'd leg it as far away from me as possible if I asked you what all this meant to you."

"Expect I can't fault you for thinking I was going to be a coward about all of it," John said, slowly. "Maybe I have been."

Greg watched him with those kind brown eyes. "You just weren't ready yet. Doesn't make you a coward." 

"But now -- I think I really do want to try to, you know, be with you," John breathed out quickly. "Not snog or date anyone else, I mean, and, I don't know, be...boyfriends, or something." The word 'boyfriends' sounded ridiculous as he blurted it out, but he couldn't think of anything that better described what he wanted.

There was that brilliant smile, John thought, feeling his stomach flip as Greg grinned at him. 

"Boyfriends, eh? Quite a change from a few days ago. Suppose we owe Sherlock Holmes some thanks after all, even if he did get in the middle of everything like the posh git he is."

"That's a bit generous," John commented with a roll of his eyes. But he smiled at Greg anyway, letting his eyes flick to Greg's lovely mouth.

When Greg surged forward to kiss John again, John pressed against him enthusiastically, cupping Greg's face in his hands for that first electrifying touch of lips. They pawed at each other somewhat clumsily; for all that they'd done this a fair number of times by now, the excitement at this agreed-upon change between them fueled a shaky thrill that left them both eager and awkward.

Of course that would be the moment that Sherlock Holmes would bang open the door and stride into the room.


	7. Chapter 7

"Ah, good, you've both seen reason," Sherlock said briskly, tugging off the expensive leather gloves on his hands as he examined them keenly. 

The door clicked shut by itself as John and Greg froze, both regarding Sherlock in disbelief. 

"I see." Sherlock tucked his gloves into the pocket of his imposing coat. "You told Greg first, and then he owned up to his part. And rather than bickering, you've managed to sort it all out. Now, I believe something was said about thanking me?" Sherlock's mouth tightened as he turned his uncanny stare on them.

John groaned, letting his forehead fall to Greg's shoulder. "You _would_ be listening in at doors, wouldn't you?"

"Observing," Sherlock corrected him. "Besides, it's nothing to do with me that the interior structures of these dormitories are so poorly constructed as to allow anyone paying attention to overhear conversations. I merely happened to be adjacent when you chose to have a private word in a room with extremely thin walls." 

"Just happened to be passing by, eh?" Greg said skeptically. "Look, all right, I owe you for helping me pass that exam. As for the rest of it, well -- you'll have to excuse me when I say that right now I want you to get the hell out of my room."

"Tedious," Sherlock pronounced. "Surely you can set aside your feelings of disgruntlement to acknowledge my critical role in helping everything work out as you wanted. You said as much moments ago."

Greg made a choking sound. "Honestly, I'm not going to fall over myself thanking you right now, particularly when there's the not so small matter of you trying to get off with my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend," Sherlock repeated, tilting his head to the side in assessment. His intense eyes shot to John with keen interest. 

"What did I tell you about breaking into boys' rooms, anyway?" John asked in exasperation as he sat up straighter.

"Didn't break in. Copied the key." Sherlock dangled a fob with a sole key on it as evidence. "And I did say you'd be hearing from me."

John tried not to think about how Sherlock quite likely had another such key ring giving him access to John's room. Instead he complained, "Can't you ask to get a coffee to talk like a normal person instead of interrupting something private?"

"Well. Things between the two of you aren't exactly private anymore, are they?" Sherlock's mouth twisted slightly, as though he were holding back a exultant smile.

"Whatever you're going to say, shut it," Greg advised, looking wary.

"No, what does he mean? What do you mean?" John asked anxiously. His mind skittered back to the tense moments in his room when he thought Sherlock was threatening him because of what he knew about Greg and John. He thought they were supposed to be past that now.

Sherlock exhaled impatiently. "By way of proper thank you, obviously, you ought to -- the two of you rather did introduce me to these matters, but with hardly enough experience and data to go forward. And the matter remains that some -- notice I didn't say _I_ \-- would regard the circumstances with each of you respectively as taking advantage of a younger, more naive partner." Sherlock did smile this time, fierce and triumphant and delighted.

"Is he saying we owe it to him to -- absolutely not," John said quickly.

But he didn't say it quite quickly enough to miss Greg muttering, "Not that I'm saying yes, but hearing about the two of you together did sound fucking hot."

"You can't be serious," John asked him, watching Greg's cheeks burn deep red.

"I did say I wasn't saying yes," Greg defended himself.

John wasn't certain whether to laugh or throw his hands in the air and storm out of the room. He'd fretted so much about how Greg would react to his news that he hadn't really pictured what it must have been like when Sherlock tried to kiss Greg. And no, he wasn't going to picture it now -- _of course_ he was picturing it now, Sherlock even more uncertain than when he'd first touched those soft lips to John's, that dark curling hair falling into his transfixing eyes as he flung himself at Greg. Greg, like John, knowing he ought to put a stop to it straight away, but so overwhelmed and enthralled that he let it go on for longer than it should have, their mouths working frantically as the heat built between them --

John licked his lips, seeing Greg glancing at him, his face still flushed, and Sherlock regarding them each with a frenetic anticipation obvious in his expression.

"I've only just gotten used to the idea of a relationship with a man," John said slowly. "I'm not certain I can handle --"

"Having more than one lover?" Sherlock's nose scrunched up in distaste at this presumed argument. "I find it ridiculous of you to persist in such a narrow-minded and antiquated idea of relationships, John."

"No, no," John said, unable to keep from smiling. "Not just a third person, though I'd say that's enough to bring me up short, whether that makes me backward-thinking or not. But you -- _Sherlock_ \-- I mean, you're like a force of nature. Doesn't sound like the best idea to add that to the mix when we've only just got everything sorted."

Sherlock sighed, clearly having grown weary of a situation he regarded as banal. "Obviously you need more time to adjust to the idea. I have great hopes for your eventual acceptance of the situation, however, now that you've begun to move past your formerly pedestrian views about sexual identity and recognize you're far less risk-averse than you originally imagined. Really, unless you're absolute idiots, I doubt either of you can continue to deny the advantages of such a scenario." He withdrew his gloves from the deep pockets of his coat and gave them each a brisk nod in turn. "Catch you later."

When the door had slammed after him, John turned to Greg, eyes wide.

Greg went slightly red at the effort, but couldn't keep himself from laughing. 

"It's hard not to think he might have planned this entire thing," John said, dazed.

"Not this entire thing," Greg disagreed. "He hardly knew either of us when we met."

"No, but it's like when he came here while the two of us were -- a few days ago -- the gears started turning."

"Maybe." Greg reached out and rubbed John's shoulders. "But let's not worry about him right now."

With a sigh, John slumped against him, giving an appreciative moan when Greg continued to massage him. 

"I mean it. Don't think about it," Greg suggested in a murmur. "We've enough to be going on ourselves without losing sleep about Sherlock." He pulled back, regarding John with a small smile. "Now, I already said you didn't have to apologize any more. But I quite liked that idea you had -- what was it, making it up to me?"

"You've your own transgressions to be making up for," John retorted even as he grinned.

"Funny, but I don't mind that arrangement one bit. Let's get started, then." 

They fell back onto the bed together, side-by-side this time, as Greg unerringly sought out the most sensitive spot on John's neck and sucked. John reached down to draw his hand across Greg's groin, breathing out hard when he felt Greg already stiff against his jeans. 

As they shimmied out of their shirts and jeans and moved together, John couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude -- to think he'd been so ready to give this up at the first sign of trouble. But Greg had waited, listened, hadn't blamed him for any of it.

John got his hand wrapped around Greg's cock, moaning appreciatively at the skin so warm and silky in his grip. He gasped as Greg massaged his arse, slipping a finger just inside the leg of his pants to press and stroke against that small sensitive hole.

Whatever had happened, the main thing was that they were going to try to make it work, just the two of them. And as they got their pants off and aligned themselves, pricks rubbing against each other, gasping into each other's mouths, John tried not to think about the third person in the equation, the one who seemed to be so very good at getting exactly what he wanted.


End file.
